What Bukowski Has Done

Watching televised interviews with Bukowski,
I can't look away from him--
that stumbling, bumbling, asshole drunkard
who has shown everyone my insides.

Every burp and raspy swallow,
purging poetry in a voice that drags,
all my secrets droned on and on and on. . .
for the masses to lick clean.

I am reminded of things.

Father's shiny beer gut winks
at a nervous, pimpling grocery boy.
A squeak asks paper or plastic?
and the belly gets scratched with fingers
too bloated for a wedding ring.

On the telephone line--
my wild-haired mother's words are all

one again, wet vowels stretch
across a sleepy American afternoon.
Mud-faced little brother in the background, tugs
at a three-day old sleeve, asking
can't I please come back?

There are places you can never leave,
like how the smell of cat piss still lingers

in the folds of my dress pants, how the taste

of my drunken lover's kiss reminds me of

a lie, how the color of vodka has stained

my sight clear.

Bukowski reminds me that I am a human;
Each morning, I scrub my skin raw with soap
only to pretend that the filth goes away.